“Thanks.” I gave him a quick kiss and headed out of the kitchen to get changed.
“Ali?” He called me back. His voice sounded funny—had he seen something? I walked back into the kitchen and froze for a moment when I saw that I’d left my laptop open on the kitchen table. Had he seen the search I had open on the screen?
“Yes?” Trying to sound as casual as I could. What would I say if he asked about it?
But he was busy unloading things from the fridge, not looking at the table at all, and he only said, “Where are you going to eat?”
“I don’t know,” I said, relieved and ridiculously pleased at not having to lie about at least one thing. “I think Julie’s picking the place.” I snapped my laptop closed and carried it out of the kitchen.
*
“If we steal his computer and phone he can report the theft, and while he’s doing that he might decide to tell the police about the photos,” I said to Julie and Sarah on the drive to Bellevue. “It would be better if I erase all his files. Just clear his electronics.”
“He could still report that to the police, couldn’t he?” Julie said. She kept glancing at her phone, expecting to hear from Heather, whom none of us had been able to reach.
“Where the hell are you?” Sarah growled into Heather’s voice mail. “This is so typical of you—leaving us to do all the dirty work.”
It made me cringe. By that point, I was completely paranoid about any phone conversations and tried to keep things short and cryptic. I didn’t know if the police were tapping our cell phones, but if they were, that blatant a message would be hard to explain away.
“Fortini might still go to the police,” I told Julie, “but what evidence would he have? We’re going to wear gloves and we can be in and out in about an hour.”
“You do realize that’s a felony, right?” Sarah had said when I proposed the plan. “Breaking and entering—you could get three to five before any other charges are added.”
“And we could get twenty-five to life if we don’t get those photos,” I’d retorted. “Which sentence do you want to shoot for?”
She wasn’t risking arrest anyway, or at least not for breaking and entering. We were dropping her off at The Crooked Halo, waiting outside long enough to get the thumbs-up text that meant Ray Fortini was working behind the bar, before Julie and I proceeded to his house.
We’d met at Julie’s beforehand because Brian was out of town again. He was always out of town. Did she ever question what he was doing, I wondered as we headed into her garage. The latest temp nanny was feeding Julie’s kids dinner just on the other side of the interior wall and we spoke in hushed whispers as we got ready to go. Off went my tapered slacks and kitten heels, the silky blouse and fine jewelry that I’d put on for our ostensible girls’ night out. On went workout wear—black running tights and sneakers, a dark T-shirt and a thick gray jacket with a hood. Julie was dressed similarly; she’d told the babysitter that we were going to a yoga class and then maybe out for a meal after. Sarah wore skinny jeans and a trendy top, but I was still concerned she might look too mom-ish for The Crooked Halo.
“He’ll recognize me,” she protested when I suggested she be the one to sit in Fortini’s bar.
“Not if you’re wearing one of these.” Julie pulled two wigs out of a bag, one a short brown pageboy, the other long, sleek, and jet-black.
“What the hell are those?”
“Brian and I went to a costume party last year—do you want Sonny or Cher?”
“Are you kidding me? I don’t want either.”
“If you wear one of these he’ll never recognize you,” I said.
“If you really don’t want to be recognized, I’ve got Sonny’s mustache as well,” Julie said, giggling.
“No thank you,” Sarah said, grabbing the Cher wig. It took a lot of tucking and a bunch of bobby pins to make sure her curls were completely hidden.
As we pulled up in front of The Crooked Halo, Sarah nervously adjusted the wig again.
“Don’t touch it,” Julie said. “You look good.”
“Don’t drink so much that you forget to text us if he leaves,” I said, and she rewarded us by slamming the car door. “She doesn’t exactly blend into the crowd,” I commented as we watched her walk into the bar, that long black mane sashaying behind her.
chapter thirty-seven
SARAH
The Crooked Halo had been around so long that its disco-era vibe was cool again. The bar was black onyx and over fifteen feet long, with a gold-framed, smoked mirror behind it that doubled the numbers of bottles and glasses. There were scattered round tables and curved booths with crushed velvet seating, and there was even a dance floor, one of those giant white plastic squares made up of smaller squares that lit up in different colors when someone stepped on them. Half the bulbs had burned out and no one had bothered replacing them, and the only reason I knew that was because of the odd couple swaying on the dance floor when I arrived.
I took a table in the corner nearby and waited for a waitress to come for my drink order so I could avoid getting too close to Ray Fortini. I was convinced he’d recognize me, even with that ridiculous wig. He hadn’t looked in my direction yet, or if he had, it must have only been a passing glance. The bar was fairly crowded, a lot of people gathered to watch the Penguins game playing on various hanging flat-screen TVs. They were the only modern touch in the place.
An emaciated-looking man who might have been thirty or sixty and his equally emaciated-looking girlfriend shifted around the disco floor, moving their bodies in slow-motion calisthenics. Completely disconnected from each other and reality, dancing to the music in their heads, not the hard rock playing over the bar speaker system. When the woman extended a bony arm near me, I saw needle tracks and realized they were probably addicts.
No one else was dancing and no one bothered with them, although once, when the man bounced against another patron, Fortini yelled, “Hey, watch it, junkie!” Neither of them acknowledged this warning.
The waitstaff was small, just two women and a man wearing standard-issue black pants and T-shirts that had the name of the bar emblazoned across the front so that it rippled across the women’s chests. Despite the short staff, my gin and tonic came quickly enough, slapped down on a little cocktail napkin, splashing slightly. “Get you anything else?” the waitress said, balancing a tray with three other drinks. The bright cherries in a whiskey sour bobbed in and out of view. I shook my head.
There were enough people between me and the bar that I was free to watch Fortini, sipping my gin and tonic and noticing that in between pouring drinks, he’d check a cell phone he pulled from beneath the bar. Was this the one with the photos? Only one way to find out. I took out my phone and called him.
The number rang and rang, but he calmly poured a draft for someone and made no move toward the phone. Remembering the previous time I’d tried this, I hung up and dialed again. I could hear it ringing, but could he? I couldn’t tell over the din and he calmly mixed a drink for another patron. I tried a third time, but there was still no attempt to answer. Discouraged, I hung up after the tenth ring, but just then he wiped his hands on a towel and reached under the bar for the phone. I saw him frown at the screen, then furiously type something. Seconds later, my screen lit up: Stop calling!
Bingo. I smiled and took another sip of my drink, thinking about how I was going to get that phone.
“Hey, can I buy you a drink?” A man had materialized at my side without me noticing. My long “hair” obscured my peripheral vision—it was like wearing blinders. I tried to tuck it behind my ears and surveyed him. Medium height and build, receding hairline and a small paunch, holding a beer glass—your average, reasonably friendly-looking thirtysomething white guy whom I might possibly have accepted a drink from if I was single and not trying to spy on the bartender.